nirinia: (Default)
Fog is descending on the world outside my windows, I have tea and social psychology. Roger and Kåre-Bjarne, the two faces depicted on the book's cover, named by me and Kristine, have done an incredible amount of desperate things in my mind over the course of the 150-60 pages I have read. And, when I can work up the courage, I am starting over again, and writing notes. It should, perhaps, worry me that I remember next to nothing of what I have read.

And I continue reading Lessing's The Grandmothers. The two first novels – I hestitate to call them novels, they are so short, but neither are they short stories –, The Grandmothers and Victoria and the Straveneys, were both sublime, but the one I am reading now, The Reason for It is a bit quirky. The entire collection is a social commentary, and while I see the elements in this one, too, I had expected something more from Lessing. I suspect one of her, very idiosyncratic, surprising endings approaching. Or just a revelation of some sort, there have been a few just the last few pages.

I should perhaps say something of why I admire Lessing so much? She is, beyond writing good stories and creating good - not amiable, almost never amiable -, a master of insinuation. There is so much left hanging in the air, always essential to the story, but never said out-right. A bit like Hemmingway, though you are almost forced to analyse some of his works to get at the things he would not say. Lessing trusts the reader; no, she does not trust us, but takes for granted that we are reasonably intelligent, thinking and good readers that will not skip descriptions (credit goes to Nabokov for the image of good readers being the ones that devour a book word by word, dictionary in hand). I like her short stories, in particular. Though they must be read as a whole, in collections. "Romance 1988" bewildered me when read on its own, taken out of its original context of London Observed and placed in Tapestry.

As Gina ([livejournal.com profile] sleepingsun89), I joined Den norske bokklubben and got a gift-certificate, for which I bought several books. Yesterday, I got seven of them. Dickens' Dickens' David Copperfield and A Christmas Carol, Wilde's Collected Works, The Life and Loves of a She-Devil by Fay Weldon, Nabokov's autobiography Speak Memory, Joyce's Dubliners and Auster's The Inner Life of Martin Frost. I shall read Dickens till I can take no more, comfort-read Wilde, devour Nabokov with appropriate vigour and requisite squeels of delight.

Oh, Kristine got 6 on the "extended essay" (or "særemne") we wrote together. There is no denying it now, we are brilliant!

And in the spirit of Christmas and Psychology, god jul! Or Merry Christmas, if you are so inclined.
nirinia: (Default)
Fog is descending on the world outside my windows, I have tea and social psychology. Roger and Kåre-Bjarne, the two faces depicted on the book's cover, named by me and Kristine, have done an incredible amount of desperate things in my mind over the course of the 150-60 pages I have read. And, when I can work up the courage, I am starting over again, and writing notes. It should, perhaps, worry me that I remember next to nothing of what I have read.

And I continue reading Lessing's The Grandmothers. The two first novels – I hestitate to call them novels, they are so short, but neither are they short stories –, The Grandmothers and Victoria and the Straveneys, were both sublime, but the one I am reading now, The Reason for It is a bit quirky. The entire collection is a social commentary, and while I see the elements in this one, too, I had expected something more from Lessing. I suspect one of her, very idiosyncratic, surprising endings approaching. Or just a revelation of some sort, there have been a few just the last few pages.

I should perhaps say something of why I admire Lessing so much? She is, beyond writing good stories and creating good - not amiable, almost never amiable -, a master of insinuation. There is so much left hanging in the air, always essential to the story, but never said out-right. A bit like Hemmingway, though you are almost forced to analyse some of his works to get at the things he would not say. Lessing trusts the reader; no, she does not trust us, but takes for granted that we are reasonably intelligent, thinking and good readers that will not skip descriptions (credit goes to Nabokov for the image of good readers being the ones that devour a book word by word, dictionary in hand). I like her short stories, in particular. Though they must be read as a whole, in collections. "Romance 1988" bewildered me when read on its own, taken out of its original context of London Observed and placed in Tapestry.

As Gina ([livejournal.com profile] sleepingsun89), I joined Den norske bokklubben and got a gift-certificate, for which I bought several books. Yesterday, I got seven of them. Dickens' Dickens' David Copperfield and A Christmas Carol, Wilde's Collected Works, The Life and Loves of a She-Devil by Fay Weldon, Nabokov's autobiography Speak Memory, Joyce's Dubliners and Auster's The Inner Life of Martin Frost. I shall read Dickens till I can take no more, comfort-read Wilde, devour Nabokov with appropriate vigour and requisite squeels of delight.

Oh, Kristine got 6 on the "extended essay" (or "særemne") we wrote together. There is no denying it now, we are brilliant!

And in the spirit of Christmas and Psychology, god jul! Or Merry Christmas, if you are so inclined.
nirinia: (tatjana patitz)
Note to self: do not leave keys for home at home when weather equals freezing fingers and toes off if you are outside for more than a grand total of four minutes, much less twenty.

Other than that, I think the Ghost of Christmas Past came to visit me when I sat reading Lessing outside, waiting for Mother to return so I could get in. 5 weeks til Christmas, and I can start thinking of presents again. And we're planning a Christmas work-shop of sorts, with liquer gingerbread and carols.
Lessing writes beautifully, I am so grateful to grandmother for bringing me a few of her books. I read the first of four very short novels in The Grandmothers, called, fittingly, The Grandmothers. She is a master of insinuation, I can't help but admire her. I hadn't realized I needed a cure after The Meaning of Night, but I obviously did. The clock's short arm has not yet passed five, and it is already dark, I do love this time of year; I can read and do nothing without feeling bad about not being more productive.

And, we're in London in mid-January, that means SALE. I am deliriously incoherent. Marc Jacobs, United Nude, Irregular Choice, Alexander McQueen, London.


------

Addendum: I have to marvel a bit about my Norwegian and History teacher. He is so knowledgable, I can't quite believe it. And he said something wonderful about learning languages today, those of us that can truly call ourselves bilingual, do not only know two languages, but partake in two cultures. The world, is to the bilingual, double the size to that of the monolingual. I can't quite help but marvel at both the opportunity to become bilingual, and the opportunity to be exposed to such a wonderful teacher.
nirinia: (tatjana patitz)
Note to self: do not leave keys for home at home when weather equals freezing fingers and toes off if you are outside for more than a grand total of four minutes, much less twenty.

Other than that, I think the Ghost of Christmas Past came to visit me when I sat reading Lessing outside, waiting for Mother to return so I could get in. 5 weeks til Christmas, and I can start thinking of presents again. And we're planning a Christmas work-shop of sorts, with liquer gingerbread and carols.
Lessing writes beautifully, I am so grateful to grandmother for bringing me a few of her books. I read the first of four very short novels in The Grandmothers, called, fittingly, The Grandmothers. She is a master of insinuation, I can't help but admire her. I hadn't realized I needed a cure after The Meaning of Night, but I obviously did. The clock's short arm has not yet passed five, and it is already dark, I do love this time of year; I can read and do nothing without feeling bad about not being more productive.

And, we're in London in mid-January, that means SALE. I am deliriously incoherent. Marc Jacobs, United Nude, Irregular Choice, Alexander McQueen, London.


------

Addendum: I have to marvel a bit about my Norwegian and History teacher. He is so knowledgable, I can't quite believe it. And he said something wonderful about learning languages today, those of us that can truly call ourselves bilingual, do not only know two languages, but partake in two cultures. The world, is to the bilingual, double the size to that of the monolingual. I can't quite help but marvel at both the opportunity to become bilingual, and the opportunity to be exposed to such a wonderful teacher.
nirinia: (cinema)
Apropos Norwegian film, Berlinerpoplene is rather cute. Though the actor playing Margido is branded as evil and despicable due to his always playing the bad-guys when I was young, it is a very pretty series. It started off badly, depressing and boring, but redeemed it self as it went along. Krumme and Erlend are wonderful together, and seem so very comfortable around and with each other, they are, quite simply touching.

Perhaps there is something the film industry in this culture-forsaken country can do right, after all? Perhaps it needs time to develop its characters, and have not yet developed the skills necessary to cram very much into very little space? For that is, in the end, what film is about, no?

I haven't yet dared read the books - I despise Ragde for publicly displaying her lack of knowledge, she claims not to know how tu se commas and simply "throw them about". And finished Michale Cox's The Meaning of Night, and am ambivalent. There were intriguing bits, bloody boring bits and the occasional hilarious bit. Now I am going to read Lessing's "The Grandmothers", or parts of it, before I move on to either Bjørneboe or Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
nirinia: (cinema)
Apropos Norwegian film, Berlinerpoplene is rather cute. Though the actor playing Margido is branded as evil and despicable due to his always playing the bad-guys when I was young, it is a very pretty series. It started off badly, depressing and boring, but redeemed it self as it went along. Krumme and Erlend are wonderful together, and seem so very comfortable around and with each other, they are, quite simply touching.

Perhaps there is something the film industry in this culture-forsaken country can do right, after all? Perhaps it needs time to develop its characters, and have not yet developed the skills necessary to cram very much into very little space? For that is, in the end, what film is about, no?

I haven't yet dared read the books - I despise Ragde for publicly displaying her lack of knowledge, she claims not to know how tu se commas and simply "throw them about". And finished Michale Cox's The Meaning of Night, and am ambivalent. There were intriguing bits, bloody boring bits and the occasional hilarious bit. Now I am going to read Lessing's "The Grandmothers", or parts of it, before I move on to either Bjørneboe or Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
nirinia: (Default)
I'm posting obsessively, again, but I trust any readers will forgive me. School is surprsingly miserable, class-wise, and wonderfully entertaining, subject-wise.

On the subject of my literary progression, the writing that seemed about to return in Zombie-like incarnation, changed its mind, and stays dead. Not finding the books I needed, I bought "London Observed" on a whim, as a comfort of sorts. I knew I'd seen the name Doris Lessing somewhere, but couldn't place it. Checking her bibliography, I found she'd written "The Fifth Child", which I read closely (it's intended as a bad pun on 'close reading' tests). Reading it earlier today, I happened upon a short-story called "Romance 1988", and was slightly bothered by the fact that I'd seen the name somewhere. It turns out I read "Romance 1988" for my English exam.

And I just found nose-marks on the front door, and some of his toys still smell of him. I haven't yet deared to walk any of our ways.
nirinia: (Default)
I'm posting obsessively, again, but I trust any readers will forgive me. School is surprsingly miserable, class-wise, and wonderfully entertaining, subject-wise.

On the subject of my literary progression, the writing that seemed about to return in Zombie-like incarnation, changed its mind, and stays dead. Not finding the books I needed, I bought "London Observed" on a whim, as a comfort of sorts. I knew I'd seen the name Doris Lessing somewhere, but couldn't place it. Checking her bibliography, I found she'd written "The Fifth Child", which I read closely (it's intended as a bad pun on 'close reading' tests). Reading it earlier today, I happened upon a short-story called "Romance 1988", and was slightly bothered by the fact that I'd seen the name somewhere. It turns out I read "Romance 1988" for my English exam.

And I just found nose-marks on the front door, and some of his toys still smell of him. I haven't yet deared to walk any of our ways.

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